


and let the violent ones claim calamity

by mirrorfade



Series: the reaper grins [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Female Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:25:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorfade/pseuds/mirrorfade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So a psychopath and a former slave start living together. Aggressive!Hawke and Orana define a working relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and let the violent ones claim calamity

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from A Welcome Burden, by Disturbed. TW for discussions of slavery, abuse, rape, and cannibalism. Idea came out of the realization that the reaver class is basically Superpowered Cannibalism, and my undying love of the antisocial hot mess that is agressive!hawke.

Mistress Hawke collects shards of pottery and costume jewelry, piling them up in corners and pressed between the pages of old books. A few of the larger books have been gutted and stuffed with torn trousers, all of them stained and far too small for Mistress Hawke. (People say she has qunari blood). One of Orana’s tasks is to pick up the refuse when it falls to the library floor. The detritus of adventures and something that a slave dare not name. 

The fact that Mistress Hawke calls her a servant means very little now. Mistress Hawke is like Master Hadrianna in some ways; they both have their habits. 

Orana gathers up the rings with glass stones and stale crackers and bits of mud, whatever it is that Hawke has found and gathered. In the beginning, Orana sorted everything dutifully into piles, so that her mistress might deal with the items as she pleased – but in an ordered fashion. Everything in its place. 

The dwarf, Bodahn, promptly throws the whole lot away in the dustbin. 

“Don’t mind that, Miss Orana,” he says kindly. “It’s only a little mess.”

“I don’t understand,” she says. 

Bodahn shrugs, wiping his hands off. “Mistress Hawke hardly notices those things.”

“She keeps them in the books.”

Magistrates have their habits. This is known. Mistress Hawke wields a sword and not the cruel powers of the fade, but that is a very small distinction in a place like this. Orana clasps her hands together. “She will be angry if they are gone.”

“Oh, no, not at all.” Bodahn smiles at her, in a fatherly sort of way. (She has seen him eating with his son, and has never accepted the invitation to join them). “She just wants to be around _things_ , you see. It doesn’t matter what they are. I think she’d rather be around people, you know—her friends, but one doesn’t ask all those people to sleep in one place, now do they? Hardly proper.”

Orana nods. “I understand.”

She does not understand. It is just the thing that is said in times like these. 

“Don’t worry about the mess,” Bodahn says again, as if she has already forgotten. “Mistress Hawke barely notices these things.”

**

In truth, Mistress Hawke barely seems to notice anything about the housework. She sleeps in the great bed – it is not made of bones like the people in the market say – and if the sheets are made and food is on the table, then Mistress Hawke is pleased. She does not notice if the books are dusty or if the windows become covered in a film of grease after one of Sandal’s games. Mistress Hawke attends to her own armor and weapons, and shoos Orana away with a growl when she attempts to help. 

Orana only bows away, head low. She knows her place. 

One day, she is held up in the market and does not have breakfast made in time. She comes into the kitchen to find Hawke cutting up a piece of meat into thin strips with a dagger. She is wearing no armor, only the thick undertunic and no shoes. Her bare toes scrap a lazy line across the stones. “Oh,” Mistress Hawke says, sounding bored. “You.”

Orana does not drop her wares. Instead she sets them down on the counter, ever so carefully, and then bows. Not on her knees. (Hawke does not like this). But very low, so that perhaps Hawke will not hit her in the face. “My apologies, Mistress. There was a delay—”

Hawke grunts, sticking the knife into the cutting board. She sticks a piece of meat into her mouth and chews it. Blood paints her mouth. “Don’t care. I’ll be training for a while. Don’t bother me. Unless Sandal sets the carpets on fire again. Then bother me. But quietly.”

“Yes, Mistress Hawke.”

Later, Orana goes to her room and finds a plate full of steaming meat on her bed, along with a pouch of gold coins. There is no note. She eats with her hands, and tries to understand what, exactly, Mistress Hawke intends to say with this. 

**

In time, Orana’s duties are shrunken down and refined to a simple schedule: 

Wake. Do not disturb Mistress Hawke.

Cook. Do not feed Mistress Hawke’s mabari. 

Leave the meals for Mistress Hawke to find. Right Mistress Hawke’s bed sheets. Quietly escort Mistress Hawke’s latest bedmate out the back door. 

Anything else risks encroaching on Mistress Hawke’s temper, or interfering with one of Mistress Hawke’s schemes. The consequences for that are sudden and violent. Once, Orana turned ‘round a corner in the library in time to see Mistress Hawke smash a man’s face into the mahogany table. She held him by the hair and lifted his head up with a snarl, and then slammed it down again. Bam, bam, bam. Three times she lifted him and let him bleed, before she let go of his hair – now slick with blood and snot. Orana stood very still by the bookshelves. 

Mistress Hawke leaned in close, trailing her hands over the man’s face, and the place where his nose used to be. “Now,” she says, so very quietly, “you’re not going to say that about my sister again, are you?”

The man chokes. This might be a plea for mercy. 

Mistress Hawke takes him by the hair again. “You’re not even going to whisper it. Are you?”

Orana lowers her eyes. Just because she is present does not mean she wishes to see. It is too dangerous to leave. 

But Mistress Hawke does not kill the man. She only taps him between the eyes, just once. “Bethany Hawke is untouchable. Pass the word. She stays that way. Or I’ll kill your fucking kids.”

“Yes,” the man hisses. “Yes.”

Hawke stands by the table, now stuck with bone shards, and watches him run away. “Orana.”

Of course she noticed. Orana does not flinch. She has always been a good slave. There are rules. One must be silent and polite at all times, and tirelessly _helpful_. Always helpful. Orana pads forward, hands clasped in front of her. “Do you require healing, Mistress? I can fetch the potions.”

“Do you like silk, Orana?” Mistress Hawke asks. She is drawing symbols in the gore with her hand, not looking at Orana at all. 

Orana blinks slowly. “Mistress?”

Hawke picks a bone shard out of the table and holds it up to the light. “This is a fucking mess.”

“I’ll clean it up immediately.”

Blood does not come out easily, but Orana has her ways. 

Hawke grunts, and sticks a finger in her mouth. Sucking the blood off. “I’ll have an errand for you tomorrow. Take the dog. I’ll be killing slavers. In case you were wondering.”

Orana bows. One does not question the whims of one’s master. “Yes, Mistress Hawke.

**

In the morning, Orana finds a map and Mistress Hawke’s mabari sitting on the end of her bed. The mabari has drooled on the paper, but the ink remains. Orana does not try to pet the dog, though he noses curiously at her feet. It is an honor to serve a mabari, Orana tells herself. Mistress Hawke has told her so, in the growling way that Hawke does when she is drunk and lonely. Orana scrubs at her nails for a long time, until she is certain that all the blood is gone, and then she follows the dog out the door. 

Most days she does not leave the estate. The walls are wide and towering, and in a way Orana feels safe surrounded by all Hawke’s useless clutter. The books are never filled just with words, the fireplace is always stocked with more than wood, and oh, the walls are carved with stories. Sometimes, when Orana cannot sleep, she walks up and down the halls, touching the walls with her hands until she finds the pictures carved into the wood with knives and desperate claws. Sometimes she even sees Hawke there, stabbing history into the walls with one of her daggers. Hawke does not see her at these times, because Hawke is always horribly drunk when she does it. A good slave does not speak of these things. A good slave does not know these things at all, but Mistress Hawke is not a blood mage; Orana’s thoughts are, for now, her own. 

Every scratch says something. Orana does not know what, exactly, but there is more than emptiness there. 

It is better to be surrounded by things, even useless things, than to be completely alone. 

When Orana is tired and worn down, too tired to remember herself, she thinks that she could understand Mistress Hawke just a little. But that is a dangerous thought, far too close to friendly. 

One does not become friendly with their mistress. One obeys them. Carefully. 

The dog leads her to a small dress shop in high town, attended by a bored looking woman dressed all in pink. “Oh,” she says, eying the dog in vague alarm – though not any real surprise. “You must be Hawke’s girl. She said you were coming.”

Orana bows, standing behind the mabari. 

For his part, the dog seems content to sniff at an expensive piece of satin. Orana only hopes that he will not piss on it, because then she will be obliged to put the bolt of fabric on Mistress Hawke’s account and that may make Mistress Hawke angry. Orana lowers her eyes. “Am I to pick up an order?”

The woman snorts. “Doesn’t Hawke tell you anything? Go stand over there so I can get your measurements.”

So Orana stands in the center of the shop while the dog sniffs at lace collars, and the mistress of the shop measures her for a dress. Orana holds herself very still as the woman fashions pins to her, clicking her teeth. “Hmph. You must have done something special to get her happy. Pity my husband doesn’t look so kindly on me.”

Orana blinks. She is not sure what she is meant to do now. “I don’t understand.”

That seems like the safe thing to say. 

The woman laughs. It’s not really a kind sort of laugh. “Keep on fucking that woman like you do, and she might just buy you a crown.”

For a moment, Orana thinks the woman has her confused for someone else. Then she understands. “Thank you for your time,” she says. 

“Tell Hawke not to send the dog next time,” the woman tells her. “Everyone knows who you work for. It’s not like they’d try anything here.”

**

It makes sense, Orana thinks. She has heard of these things before. There have been songs. Plays, even. Hadrianna went out with a lover to see a performance of one, back when Hadrianna had been alive and not in pieces in some dark cave. Sometimes a master might fall in love with a slave and seek to elevate them higher. Favor them with gold and trinkets and the best, most desirable sort of work. There are slaves who live their lives seeking this sort of thing. 

Orana is young, but even she knows that this sort of thing does not end well. Attractions fade. And one’s master might sway, find something more interesting to spend their time on. 

Perhaps Mistress Hawke has become enamored. It will not last. 

Orana takes the mabari home, and resolves not to say a word to Mistress Hawke. Should Hawke attempt to court her, in either the blunt way of magisters or the quiet way of commoners, Orana resolves to stay meek and quiet. Unassuming. She will play her part. Servant is better than slave, though the differences here are small. Should Hawke’s attentions wander – as they shall; Hawke has a different lover each time – then Orana’s position is in danger, and she has no allies in this place. None of the other servants know her enough to risk anything on her behalf. 

So she will play dumb, and deny everything until she cannot. 

Then, should Hawke prove to be as expected, then Orana will survive and continue on. As she much. 

After all, this is hardly the first time. 

The mabari lays a silk handkerchief on Orana’s pillow, soaked with drool. Obviously stolen from the dressmaker’s shop. Though whether the woman would want it back now is doubtful. The mabari wags his stub of a tail hopefully. 

“No,” Orana murmurs. 

The dog whines. 

“No,” she says again, a little quieter. 

The dog huffs, then goes off in search of someone more receptive. 

Orana folds the handkerchief up into squares, and hides it in the loose floorboard under her bed. 

**

Next week, three silk dresses are delivered to the mansion wrapped in paper. The men leave it in Orana’s room – “As instructed, miss,” one of them tells her, before all three of them bow at her. 

As if she were a lady. 

The mabari is sitting on the boxes when Orana finally dares to look at them, drooling happily. 

“Off,” Orana murmurs. 

The dog barks at her, but obeys. 

The dresses are much simpler than Orana had expected, all in the popular Kirkwall style. One is wine colored, with flowers embroidered around the sleeves. The others are shades of blue – one very dark, and one light, like the sky. Orana hangs them up, for lack of a better idea, and wonders what she is intended to do with them. They aren’t fancy enough for a party, not that Orana has occasion or even desire to attend one. They are, in the end, the sort of thing that a noble lady might wear around the house. 

Orana stares at the dresses for a long time, and wonders what she is meant to say to Hawke.

**

Hawke, however, does not come back for several days. Hawke, they tell her, is off slaying a dragon. Possibly several. Or a king. 

There might be a king involved, one of the market vendors tells her solemnly. “Dangerous sort, that woman.”

“She is a good mistress,” is all Orana says, because someone might hear. 

“Oh. You work in that house.” The man pulls his hood over his face, so that the shadows cover everything but the shine of his eyes. “Poor child. They say your mistress is a cannibal.”

What a thing to say. But because Hawke is not a mage, she has no way of knowing that Orana does not raise her words in defense of her. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

The man sighs. This is not the same as sympathy. It would cost too much. “ I just thought you should know. People ought to know things like that.”

Later, Mistress Hawke returns with a sack full of gold and a broken arm hanging in an awkward sling. She ignores Orana entirely, and sleeps for a whole day in her wide bed. 

**

The dog, however, follows Orana everywhere. In time his drooling seems almost charming. 

**

Orana is cleaning when Hawke stomps up to her and thrusts a heavy leather coat in her arms. “Mistress?”

“Try that on,” Hawke growls, massive arms folded across her chest. 

Orana does as she is told. The coat hangs too wide in the shoulders, and it’s heavier than expected. Orana touches the sleeves in wonder, fingers tracing the pattern of hidden chainmail. “What is this for?”

Hawke does not smile. “So you do not die, woman. I would be most displeased if you were to die.”

Thus stated, Hawke turns around and walks away. 

Orana pulls the coat tight over her shoulders, and wonders again what she is meant to do. 

**

She decides later that this is not courting, because Hawke does this to everyone. Hawke earns trophies from battle, or the coin to buy them, and then fosters them off on her friends. Mostly armor and fine blades, the best that one can come by. But in other cases it is education, singing lessons for the young woman in the house down the street, a tutor for the son of the young Templar that Mistress Hawke was fucking, books for Sandal, and jewelry for Mistress Hawke’s lovely mother. Hawke was a collector of _things_. Only unlike most collectors, Hawke never kept anything – or if she did, it was only for virtue of having forgotten its existence. She collected things and then cast them aside. Never just for herself, no. And not all of them were useless like the costume jewelry she stuffed into the bodies of hollow books. Orana polishes armor for the elf Fenris, a new staff for the bloodmage, and a quiver of fine arrows for the chantry priest. Hawke gives them these things so that they will think of her. So they won’t forget that she exists. She would give them anything, but because now she is rich, she gives them fine things. 

Orana understands, a little. She relaxes at night, and does not expect company that is not welcome. Sometimes the mabari comes in and sleeps with her, when Hawke has company in her bed, and Orana does not shoo him away. The mabari, whose name is Weatherly, sleeps with his chin on her knee. He keeps Orana warm when winter rolls in. 

So when Hawke leaves a pair of fine winter boots outside Orana’s door, Orana only bows and says, “Thank you.”

Hawke grunts. “I would be displeased if you were to freeze, Orana.”

“I will not do that, Mistress Hawke.”

“Go play your lute, or something. I have company. He’s going to regret coming in a few minutes.”

This means that Mistress Hawke is going to beat the man, Orana knows. “I understand.”

Hawke tips her head to the side. “Of course you do.”

**

Later, as it turns out, Hawke does beat the man. 

To death, this time. 

Orana comes down to the kitchen to find a pile of limbs in the sink, and a man’s head sitting on a plate. There are long splashes of gore stretching up the walls and over the long table, and a big knife stuck into the cutting board. Hawke is eating with her hands, pulling cooked meat off a long bone. “Oh,” she says, wiping blood off her mouth. “Orana. You should probably go out for a while. Go find a lover. Or buy one from the Rose. I’ll give you coin. One ought to get some fun every once and a while.”

Now, Orana has seen a great deal in her life. She is not old but she is _aged_ in the way of slavery. She has seen the aftermath of blood magic and demons, bodies split open and their organs burned. But this, now, this is quite new. She watches as Hawke rips a piece of meat off someone’s hand – recently cut from the body, and burnt into submission. It almost resembles a meal. 

Orana is not sick on the floor right there. She holds fast. 

Mistress Hawke swallows a piece of gristle. “I don’t want you to die, Orana. You are supposed to live. And you will not die by my hand. This is so. Do you understand?”

In this moment, Orana supposes she does. “Shall I come back in an hour, Mistress? To clean.”

The walls will have to be scrubbed thoroughly. 

Hawke smiles at her then. “Make it three. You really should get laid, Orana. Have some fun in the world.”

Orana bows. She will do no such thing, but perhaps….perhaps she will find something else. Something good, to make her own. “Mistress Hawke.”


End file.
